Wickedpedia Page 3

  Did she feel guilty? “I wouldn’t know how to stay mad at you.” Winnie looked away, though there was nothing to look at. “Here. Have a taste.”

  She lifted the sticky slab to her nose and sniffed. “Did you do something different this time?”

  “Same as I always make ’em.” Cole saw Josh enter over her shoulder. “You’ve just been missing out. Josh doesn’t cook for you, does he? Exactly what does he do for you?”

  If Winnie had an answer to that, she was unable to utter it. Her mouth was webbed shut with marshmallow goo.

  “Hey,” said Josh, molars grinding. “What’s going on?”

  “I figured we’d break bread and put all the ugliness of the past behind us.”

  Josh drew Winnie under his arm. “She’s being polite. The second you turn around she’ll spit it out. She’s on a diet for Sectionals.” Winnie blinked.

  “I didn’t know you were watching Winnie’s weight.” By the look of growing fury on her face, neither did she.

  “I’m only watching out for her.” Josh faltered. “If she makes it to States, it’ll help her bid for Harvard.”

  “She’ll make it to States with or without a Rice Krispies Treat,” Cole said, her most loyal cheerleader. One time he even got ejected from a match for his overzealous support (“Ace her face, Hoffman!” he’d cry). She’d won that tournament in record time.

  “I know she’ll make it to States,” Josh said. “Right, Winnie? Tell him you know I’m just trying to help! It doesn’t bother me how fat you get!” Winnie shrugged out of his grip and told Gavin to catch before flipping him the rest of her RKT. Too slow, it smacked against the back of his head and remained there, glued. He was sure to thank Winnie, anyway. But she was already in her seat, shutting down Josh’s attempt to apologize.

  Drick doddered to the lectern and called for a volunteer to begin. Cole raised his hand. The class let out a sigh. For past reports he’d gone all out, firing up PowerPoint, initiating a role-play, or conducting a Q&A with the town comptroller. But today there was no flash, no bam, no thank-you-ma’am. Today he was lowering the bar — the better to clothesline Josh.

  He’d called Gavin the night before, concerned that their plan wouldn’t work. “What if Josh doesn’t take the bait?” Gavin thought it improbable but suggested a way to whittle down the odds. “You have to tank your report. Watch Josh get cocky and drop his guard. He’ll jump at the chance to show you up in front of Winnie.” Cole knew his grade could take a slight hit in the process — and a slight hit was all Winnie might need to pull even with him in the race for valedictorian — but the thought of cutting Josh off at the shin guards was worth it.

  “The Algonquin Round Table was an American salon,” he mumbled. Josh, Winnie, and the rest of his competition leaned forward, waiting for the razzle-dazzle sure to come. “It was filled with witty writers. Their work influenced American letters for decades.” Drick expected more from his honors students, and everyone expected more from Cole. His deliberately botched delivery had provided an opening for his enemies.

  Ten minutes later, Cole finished and looked up. His classmates were slack-jawed and cross-eyed, where their eyes were open at all.

  “Thank you for that roller-coaster ride, Mr. Redeker,” Drick quacked sarcastically. “However, your speech-giving does not quite rise to the level of your cooking.” Gavin’s laugh clanked from the back of the class. “Who would care to follow up? Is anyone left awake?”

  Several hands shot into the air. Josh’s was the first among them. He sauntered to the lectern with a box under his arm and addressed his classmates with the exceptional confidence of one who dared wear cargo shorts on the eve of winter.

  “A history of serial killers,” he announced. “Check it out. H. H. Holmes, America’s first documented serial killer, was arrested in 1894. By the time of his execution, he’d confessed to twenty-seven murders, but may have committed as many as two hundred, and had set the bar for a cavalcade of killers to come. Here are but a few….”

  What Josh lacked in imagination he made up for with gusto. Nobody was in danger of falling asleep by the time he concluded his speech, taking the class on a tour of American serial killers throughout the years. Josh had a flair for describing the evolution of murder technique, as well as props for emphasis. With each case study he removed from his box an ordinary household item — a melon baller, an air pump, a tea cozy — and demonstrated how a maniac twisted its purpose from helpful to harmful.

  “So as the now-deceased killer Frank N. Berry might say, paper beats rock, and rock beats scissors, but coffee grinder beats bone.”

  “An exhaustive exploration of human depravity.” Drick shuddered as his students attempted to settle their stomachs, lacquered with Rice Krispies Treats. “Marvelous job. Are there questions for Mr. Truffle?” Cole caught a look from Gavin. What are you waiting for? it harped.

  “I have a question,” he blurted. This was it. Success or failure — and quite possibly Josh’s future, not to mention Cole’s future with Winnie — hinged on this moment.

  “I feel like every time the police identify another serial killer it becomes national news. But I’ve never heard of this Frank N. Berry until now.”

  “I’m not surprised,” yawned Mr. Expert. “It’s an obscure case, but a fascinating one. Berry was called the Rise-and-Dine Killer. He’d surprise his victims in their homes, early in the day, and always sitting at the breakfast table.”

  “That’s weird,” supplied Gavin. “You’d think that would be a hard time to catch a person unawares, not to mention get away unseen.”

  “That’s not the strangest thing by far.” Josh was in his element. “Berry himself was murdered before he could be brought to justice. And that wasn’t some random killing, either.”

  “Wait a second,” said Cole. “Are you suggesting the serial killer was killed by a serial killer?”

  “That’s Horatio Crunch’s theory,” said Josh. “He was a former police captain, best known for nabbing the notorious child murderer Trixie R. Abbot and recently went on record saying he believes the person who killed Berry is also responsible for the murders of several other people all over the country. Some say the Cap’n was close to catching Berry’s killer, too — before he also got iced.”

  “Wait, someone murdered the Cap’n, too?” asked Andrea, appalled.

  Josh nodded, enjoying his turn as teacher. “But no one knows who. Maybe the FBI does. Maybe they don’t. Maybe they’re just trying to avoid starting a panic. Right now they aren’t talking.”

  “Duh, it was the same dude who did Berry! He knew Crunch was getting too close!”

  “Has this mystery killer a modus operandi?” asked Drick.

  Josh lowered his voice, crypt quiet. “Autopsies have revealed that both Berry and Crunch died from an injection of a highly concentrated dose of a designer drug called Mendacido.”

  Gavin inquired as to whether he could get that over the counter or did he need a prescription?

  “You’d probably have an easier time getting it from a dealer,” answered Josh. “Its street name is Sugar Shock. The facts of this case are limited, and what precious little the authorities do know just begs more questions. For instance, why does the killer slather his — or her — victims in sweet golden-brown honey, fresh from the comb?”

  “Lemme get this straight,” said Cole. “You’re saying these people basically OD’d on sugar and were found coated in honey?”

  “Head to toe. And not sugar — Sugar Shock,” Josh corrected. “That’s how this killer got his name. The Cap’n dubbed him … the Sugar Bear.”

  This name of evil passed over the class like the shadow of a great and ravenous man-eating bird. For a moment, no one spoke. No one moved. No one breathed. Then Cole rolled his eyes. “Ha-ha, Josh. Joke’s over. Be real now.”

  “It is real.”

  “You expect us to believe that?”

  Winnie swung her head around, her hair slashing the face of the student behind
her. “What is your problem, Cole?” Cole steeled himself. He knew when he signed on to Gavin’s plan that Winnie might take up arms against him.

  “It’s all right,” Josh told her. “I’m happy to address Cole’s concerns. I’ve done my research.”

  “I’d be curious to know where you’re getting your facts. From the back of a cereal box?”

  “That’s quite enough, Mr. Redeker. One does not impugn a classmate’s work without good reason.”

  Winnie dialed up a death stare. “I can think of a reason,” she said, “but it isn’t good.”

  There was no backing out now. Cole forged ahead, and hoped she’d thank him later. “The reason lines every breakfast aisle in America. Am I seriously the only person to pick up on the fact that ‘Sugar Bear’ is the cartoon face of Golden Crisp? The wholesome honey-sweetened puffed-wheat cereal?”

  Josh drew breath to respond but failed to follow through, unsure. Winnie spoke up in his defense. “That could be a break in the case! Maybe the Sugar Bear is an unhinged employee of Post Cereals!”

  Giggles spread across the room at the speed of gossip. Josh couldn’t shut them down fast enough. “This has to be a coincidence!”

  Drick crossed his arms as he gazed reproachfully at Josh, who was red as a rose. Not coincidentally, Winnie was the same color. Cole yearned to comfort her.

  “You have to believe me, Mr. Drick,” Josh pleaded. “I swear, this is the truth!”

  “The truth about cereal killers, maybe,” said Cole. “But not about serial killers.”

  “I didn’t make this up,” Josh whined. “I got it straight from —”

  He had just enough smarts to stop that sentence before he finished, but not enough never to have begun it at all.

  “I believe you were about to cite your sources, Mr. Truffle?”

  Josh looked to Winnie, desperate for help, but he was on his own. The only thing left to do was confess.

  “Wikipedia,” he said, head hung low.

  Drick squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, and spent the remainder of the period lecturing the class on the limits of the Internet as a research tool. Josh stood there the whole time, up to his knees in shame, his head and hands locked in an invisible stockade. But that’s what Cole wanted. Wasn’t it?

  Drick still wasn’t finished when the bell mercifully rang. Winnie scooped up her things and rushed out. Cole couldn’t catch up to her, caught in the glut of classmates knotted in the door. Josh stayed behind for a private chat with their teacher. Drick was interested to know what role Wikipedia may have played in the work Josh had submitted earlier in the semester. From the look on Josh’s face it was apparent he knew the conversation would be a long one.

  Gavin was disappointed the paddle hadn’t made an appearance, but otherwise deemed the class a resounding success. “I love it when a plan comes together,” he murmured. Cole might have loved it, too, if he hadn’t then spotted Winnie. Andrea’s hand was on her shoulder, which jerked irregularly, in time with her wet gasps. A strange sound came from Winnie’s lips, strange but familiar. He’d heard this sound before, but never from her.

  Not choking. Crying.

  Gavin presided over the remnants of a pizza, a murder scene of tomato sauce and cheese. “Sure you don’t want more? Last slice, up for grabs.”

  Cole shook his head. They were toasting Josh’s ruin in their usual hangout, the prime booth at Benito’s, a grimy, beloved pizza joint situated at the top of a hill overlooking the high school. A greasy piece of paper had been taped above the table for three years. Written on it in Benito’s old-man scrawl was IF YOUR NAME ISN’T COLE YOU DON’T SIT HERE. Cole had been awarded the honor for single-handedly saving the neighborhood institution when a gourmet sandwich shop moved in next door and began siphoning off the post-school crowd with free Wi-Fi and bottomless coffee. Cole’s recipe for a new and improved crust shuttered the competition. The space next door to Benito’s had been empty ever since.

  “More for me,” said Gavin. “Don’t let Benito see you turn up your nose at his pie. He’ll be crushed. Benito finito.”

  Cole rested his forehead to the table. “I’m not hungry. My appetite was washed away by Winnie’s tears.”

  “If someone dear to your heart, say, yours truly, had been unmasked as a total phony, you’d cry, too.”

  “But I made her cry!”

  “Good for you. You’re well on your way to liberating her from Josh.”

  “I’d never have gone ahead with it if I’d known I’d reduce her to a puddle of goo in the process.”

  “Girls cry,” said Gavin. “That’s what they do.”

  “When they see you coming.”

  “Those are tears of joy, similar to the ones you may shed when Winnie begs you to take her back.”

  Cole tried to imagine that scenario, but saw only the moment after Drick’s class when Andrea guided Winnie down the hall, her eyes stinging and half blind. The sequence was on auto-repeat, and his heart belly flopped with each replay.

  “And she will want you back,” Gavin soothed with a pat to Cole’s head. “But first she has to bring herself to admit she made a mistake dropping you for that clod. Clearly that may take more than one prank.”

  The bell above the door jingled. Mr. Chetley entered in a tracksuit and sweat bands, a walking ad for American Apparel. The young teacher scanned the room for a seat — or a friend — and found only Cole and Gavin’s banquet. “Crud,” groaned Gavin. “He’s probably wondering why I quit Protest Club.”

  “Why did you quit Protest Club?”

  “I decided I like things the way they are. Quick, look busy.” Too late. Chetley was upon them.

  “Hey, Cola. Gavver. Mind if I join you?” He didn’t wait for an answer, sliding in. “I’m famished. Just came from the game. Didn’t see you guys there.”

  “We prefer to support the team from a distance,” said Gavin, “lest our stardom distract from the action on the field.”

  “Next time don’t be so shy. We can use all the friendly faces we can muster.”

  “Tough game?” asked Gavin.

  “We got slaughtered.”

  Cole perked up. The varsity soccer squad had been touted to go undefeated this year, largely on Josh’s prowess on center forward. “Josh must be heartbroken,” he fished.

  “I’m sure he is. Especially since he got pulled from the game….”

  Cole and Gavin looked at each other.

  “Scott stepped up to take his place but he just doesn’t have Josh’s imagination. He’s not one with the ball.”

  “If Josh is so vital, why didn’t he play? Did he get hurt?”

  Chetley glanced around. “I’m not supposed to talk about it,” he said, desperate to talk about it. “But you guys are cool. Coach got a call from the athletic director at halftime. Josh’s on academic probation. He’s on water boy duty until the heat dies down.”

  Cole felt Gavin’s swift kick under the table. His stomach folded and unfolded. Was that the return of his appetite, or the power of guilt? “No kidding. Academic probation?”

  “I’m as surprised as you are,” Chetley lamented. “I know I’m new here but I like to think I’m a pretty good judge of character. Josh seemed like a stand-up guy.”

  “It’s sad when our heroes let us down.” Gavin could barely contain his glee.

  Chetley sighed. “I guess that’s why he could barely look at his girlfriend.”

  Cole slowed up. “What happened with Josh and Winnie?

  “Is that her name?” Chetley hooked a string of mozzarella from the dregs around his finger. “I’ve seen her at the games. She and Josh seem pretty tight …”

  A montage zipped through Cole’s head. Every held hand between Winnie and Josh that he’d been unfortunate enough to witness.

  “… when he’s not giving her the brush-off. He left once he got the word he wouldn’t play. Marched right by her and wouldn’t stop, even as she called his name.”

  C
ole was grateful for the intelligence, but creeped out by its source, and quickly made his exit.

  The wind was picking up in the parking lot. Cole gazed down the hill to the high school. The soccer field was empty but the lights were on in the tennis bubble. Winnie would be at practice. The bond between Josh and Winnie was eroding. Maybe this was Cole’s chance to pry them apart. As he loped down the hill away from Benito’s, he set aside the thought that if he got his way, his hands would be dirty.

  Someone watched Cole from the shadows. Someone with a plan. And if that plan came to pass, Cole’s hands wouldn’t just be dirty.

  They’d be bloody, too.

  Cole shouldered open the heavy door to the tennis bubble and sucked up a lungful of hard-court air. The scent of vulcanized rubber and bleachers conjured memories of cheering Winnie on as she lobbed serves at dopey-eyed foes.

  Then another thing occurred to him: eighty miles per hour of felt to the face.

  The hurtling tennis ball caught Cole dead between the eyes. His head snapped backward and the lights above swam and then drowned in darkness.

  He stirred moments later. The pain bubbling from his nose took a backseat to the position in which he found himself: flat on his back, his head nestled on something pillowy and warm. Legs. A lap. A girl’s lap.

  Two voices cut through the murk. He recognized one, though he couldn’t place it. The other he knew right away. He opened his eyes a squint, enough to see, leaning above him, silhouetted by the lights and a scrim of hair….

  “Winnie?”

  “Nein, nicht Winnie,” came the voice above him, calm and gibberishy and not Winnie. Her dark hair and eyes were offset with a mod white terry cloth headband. She may have lacked the distinctive makeup, but there was no mistaking the girl from his library encounter a few days before. “Ich bin Lila.” She tapped her sternum. A tennis bracelet of skulls wriggled on her wrist. “Lila. Bist du verletzt? Wie viele finger siehst du?”

  “He doesn’t speak German.” That was Winnie.

  “Try Loser-as-a-Second-Language,” came a third voice. “He’s fluent.” And that was Andrea. Cole lifted his head and focused. Andrea was bouncing a ball with her racket in time with the pounding in his head. Winnie stood nearby at his feet, close enough to care but not enough to touch.